The Gift

A young mother knows that the people who control her land will take her baby from her. The rich and powerful need a new slave that they can bend and mold to their will, to keep in their mansions.

A nameless baby sleeps cradled in my arms. She's wrapped in a frayed blanket that's worn thin. The summer sun is mockingly bright, leering down upon us. I'm glad I could find a spot in the smoke-tinted shade behind this wall, its hardness pressing into my back so I could shield her from the shining gold above us all. I can't give the child - my child - much. But I can give her a name. One she could share with the heroes of old, so that she could also share their strength, their resilience, their rebelliousness, their wisdom.

Of course I cannot teach her the stories of their battles, their protests, their magic, their tricks, their victories. I cannot teach her of how Diffeya was part of the crew that snuck into the castle of the god-emperor Janvy to act as a distraction so her people could escape into the dessert wilderness where they would not be found. I cannot teach her of how Irissitti murdered King Ondonus in his sleep after he demanded she lie in his bed. I cannot tell her of how Kayatie and with her brother hid themselves and discovered where the secret medicine of the land owners were kept, and of how they helped their people steal it. I cannot tell her of Mercuria and how she fought bravely in battle after battle that kicked the invaders off of her land. I could not tell her these stories. 

But if I give her a name that is strong and confident, I can give her a piece of the stories. 

I clutch her small, large-eyed form close to me. She's no bigger than my forearm and hand together. She's full of softness and sweetness and vulnerability. Her dark eyelashes just barely catch the light of the afternoon sun. Her wispy black curls brush the edge of her forehead. She's so small, oh dear Desert. Her small lips are slightly open in an O shape as she sleeps. Peacefully. Soundly. I want to protect her, give her all the peace and safety and happiness she needs. But I can't. I'm holding the sleeping infant with both arms so I can't wipe the tears from my eyes, letting them freely fall onto her round cheeks and soft forehead. 

"Mercuria Irissitti. Your name is Mercuria Irisitti. My dear sweet darling warrior. You won't let them kill your fighting spirit." My tears flow uncontrollably now, and I cannot hold back from sobbing. 

I cannot give her a last name, they'll take care of that. I can only give her a first name. I hold her close to me with a desperate softness and oh-so gently rock her. They'll definitely give her a last name that shows how little they value her. That shows that they think of her as theirs. She'll probably grow up ... like any baby bird in a den of snakes grows up, really. Surrounded by people who don't love her, don't value her as a human being, as someone to be loved and not used. 

I want her to grow up loved. I want her to love herself. I want her to know she deserves love. 

I doubt she'll get the chance to love herself. I doubt their hatred won't internalize somehow or another in her rainstorm-river mind. 

But I know she has the blessing of the warrior mage and of the clever prophetess, and indeed of all the other heroes and of every single member of our people that has lived as bravely as they could under the terrible circumstances they were given. My sweet darling Mercuria Irissitti has the support of all her people, of armies, of millions of parents and siblings. And though she might not know it, though it would not be enough to give her happiness, Mercuria Irissitti will hopefully not lose the spark inside of her heart that could potentially lend glow to the darkest of nights. 

She is a beloved, treasured child of her people. A hero in her own right, like we all are. 

�"�"�"

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is [email protected] and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.